Nine Hundred Miles
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: I, Sherlock Holmes, dedicate this account to Dr. John Watson. For the sake of laying some of my old demons to rest, and for the sake of sating curiosity, here is what happened after the grim events at Reichenbach. (T for safety)
1. Introduction

SO I wasn't going to post this for a while because I wanted to get a decent head start... But I have no self control. So, this is my warning; updates may be sparse, and they will certainly be irregular.

I'm going to put a link in my profile for a song as it is the main inspiration for this fic. I'm really fascinated by what Sherlock Holmes would have been going through during the hiatus, and this song sort of embodies the underlying emotion.

I'm more than a little worried about this story because I'm not sure how far it's going to go. I's already been interesting for me to work out my interpretations on the matter, so I'm going to try and not think about it. This is for fun, after all, and for leisurely mental debate. So, feel free to comment, criticize, argue; and, hopefully, enjoy!

* * *

**Introduction**

It is in my retirement that I, Sherlock Holmes, take up my pen to write this account. In my youth, I would not think of committing these experiences to paper. I suppose it was out of a sense of pride. My travels from Reichenbach were not the fondest, and it is not gentlemanly to reveal the depths of emotion that may proceed from a difficult experience.

Now however, in my long age, as the demands of pride and society have diminished and professionalism bears less hold on my conscience, I have realized that I kept from myself something much cherished in this life: the companionship of a close friend. John Watson is, by all accounts, my dearest companion and a factor of humanity that I could not quite erase from my stern composure. In all of the years that I endeavored to keep my emotions from holding sway in my decisions, all for the sake of logic and reason, his kindness and character managed to persevere and touch my life. Please do not misunderstand. This is not to say that I regret my staunch adherence to reason; indeed, I maintain that it was vitally crucial in my line of work. But that is also not to say that I am not eternally grateful, in a personal sense, to have had the friendship of Dr. Watson. Without him, my career may have flourished to new heights. I would have, however, been no more than a dead man walking, for what is a life without poetry? Were it not for John Watson, my retiring age would be filled with the deepest of shadows, and it is an alternate reality that I do not dare to think about.

This goes a long way in saying something that should only take a few sentences' explanation. I hope you will forgive me this descent into the florid as I have made my reasons for doing such clear. With these considerations in mind, and in the quiet hours of this still and lonely house, I have decided that this record of events is one small gift I can give to my friend. While it may not be necessarily palatable as a 'good' gift - for surely, how can the sharing of suffering be considered good? – it is an honest gift, and one that exposes myself to a friend who sometimes, I regret, saw too little of my heart.

I, Sherlock Holmes, dedicate this account to Dr. John Watson. For the sake of laying some of my old demons to rest, and for the sake of sating curiosity, here is what happened after the grim events at Reichenbach.


	2. Taking Stock

**Chapter One**

In the first two nights following the demise of Moriarty and, in a false sense, myself, I determined that it would be too dangerous for me to emerge from the protection of the mountains. As Watson has detailed in his own account "_The Empty House"_, I covered roughly ten miles on the first evening of my exile. Indeed, with naught more than the light of the stars masked by the gathering clouds of a storm, I threaded my way through the trees and slopes. When I could travel no further without rest, I collapsed into a niche several yards from the path that jutted out from the slope on my left. My watch told me I'd been moving for the last five hours and, looking up at the murky sky, I felt a wash of relief that the dim light would not betray me. I felt safe enough that I planned to catch a few hours' rest. I am a fairly athletic man, but I had been traveling rather briskly, and without food, water, or rest to revive me. It should not be forgotten that, before this retreat, I had both spent several hours scrambling down a mountain and, all the while, dodging projectiles.

I leaned my head back against the mossy stone behind me and closed my eyes, feeling my body tremble and pulse with my heavy heartbeat. The air was crisp and silent save for the skittering and chirps of restless wildlife. My hands were quite sore from the hasty climb hours previous, and I opened my eyes to examine them and my other injuries. Again, Dr. Watson's account records my admission that I'd fallen "torn and bloody" at one point in my flight from Moriarty's sharpshooter. Naturally, I was not as specific to details.

It would have been wiser to continue down the mountain on a gentler slope, but my pursuer had been drawing ever nearer in range with that terrible rifle of his and the rocks he forced to tumble along my path. Haste had been the only option left to me, and so I was forced to make a much steeper descent than was safe. As I said before, I likely could not have done it in cold blood. It was after a particularly close encounter with a falling boulder that my trembling legs lost their footing and I tumbled painfully down the remainder of the steep slope.

The upside, of course, was that Moran would not be able to pursue me the way I'd escaped. He would lose time in tracking a safer route, and any inconvenience that could be delivered upon the man could only serve to better my chances. At the foot of the path I laid gasping for several seconds, cringing over various hurts and regaining my breath which had been completely knocked from my lungs. Adrenaline and a hasty prayer of gratefulness (that I was finished the worst of my ghastly climb and had somehow emerged with my life) was what got me to my feet again and I stumbled swiftly for the cover of lengthening shadows under the trees.

Now, hours later and resting in relative safety, I carefully unbuttoned my waist coat and shirt, both muddy and marred by rips and dried blood, and observed the bruises and scratches beneath. The scratches would be fine, undoubtedly, but the bruises would become quite painful tomorrow if their present tenderness was anything to signify. My feet were beginning to become sore, but that was only to be expected from the day's exertions. My face stung, and without the aid of a mirror, I could only surmise by the stain of blood on my fingers and the roughness of touch that I'd made a minor mess of my left cheek and forehead during my fall.

However, the wounds of the day would heal and be fine. I was quickly noting more pressing issues, like that of warmth and food. I had located water along my trek and it was not a present concern, especially with the promise of rain. Food I could go without, as I had done in the past, but it would not be a comfortable affair. A lot of energy would be expelled in my retreat and I foresaw a grim couple of days in my future.

The foremost need was warmth. The chill had numbed my aches to a small extent, but with the sun down and my exertion over, I began to shiver. I was only lucky that it wasn't winter. All the same, it finally began to drizzle and I searched my pockets miserably.

It is a peculiar torment to have access to a familiar comfort but no ability to utilize it. This frustration came in the form of a box of matches I remembered in my coat. Warmth was something I could provide myself; however, there was a man chasing me with murder in his intent. I was not about to light the beacon to my demise.

I recall gazing wearily at the shredded clouds above me - grey and black and a curiously somber shade of smoky purple, all slowly ghosting over one another like aimless spirits in the wan light of a drowning moon– and recognizing the weight of an unfamiliar emotion... I was perfectly alone in that moment of time. The world was in the process of learning with varying degrees of care that Sherlock Holmes had died. Only one man knew with certainty that I was alive, and his mission was to determine the opposite.

In a word, I was forlorn.

Chemically speaking, I am aware that my emotions those first nights were heavily influenced by weariness, adrenaline, and the passing of the familiar to the past. I knew also that the shock of the day's events had left me with a weighty sense of my own mortality. In a dark corner of my mind, I had made peace with death. To be alive while my dearest companion believed me dead, and yet be nothing more than a disorientated survivor, shivering against the wild landscape of a foreign land in the sickly light of a shuddering night sky, was surreal.

I do not like to let my emotions control me. But that night, I was struck by the awe and macabre horror of the thing. Closing my eyes tightly against the world I huddled deeper into my damp niche, drawing leaves and the detritus of branches across my body to stave my shivering. The sky roiled quietly above me, and the light drizzle continued on to the next morning. I slept sparingly, what dreams I had haunted by the hiss of water on rock; my mind conjured the echoes of my friend's plaintive cries into the maw of the waterfall, and a reptilian face was snarling, always sneering, at me from the periphery.


	3. Faido

Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for reading! And to whichever guest gave me that very wonderful review: I just. Wow. Thank you. Very much. I really, really appreciate your kind compliment.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

At dawn, I gave up my efforts for more sleep. I stretched slowly and with more than a few groans as my body voiced its complaints. Sleeping in the cold against a rock had done nothing to help the muscles which had received a beating against the mountainside half a day previously.

I climbed to my feet wearily and shook my head in an attempt to rid it of its peppering of dew. I was not shivering, but I recoiled at the damp feeling in my clothing. I would be grateful to see the sun up.

The sky was clearer today, and I could not help but remember something Watson had said one perfectly simple and domestic morning so many months ago. _Holmes_, he'd said as he gazed out the window over his coffee, _isn't it marvelous the way a dawn can mock the fears of a restless night and chase their grim specters away? _

I smiled slightly, perhaps a bit sadly, at the memory as I observed my surroundings. Cold and sore and alone though I might have been, the words were true. A layer of moisture upon the budding foliage of the mountainside and the air was crisp from the light rain. The noises of animals, which had seemed so furtive and designing the night before, were now a source of comfort. On the practical side, it meant that my pursuer was not nearby, for the creatures would surely flee otherwise. On the more fanciful side, the sound of birds and flitting insects was something familiar and concrete to me. It was enough to ground myself against my weakness and doubts, and thus once again I became the resolute consulting detective.

I set out at a very calculated pace; I did not want to travel too slowly, but I also did not want to deplete my energy. There was no sign of Moran, but I was not about to underestimate the man. Indeed, perhaps not seeing him was a dangerous factor in itself.

It was a little before midday that I began to feel the effects of my hunger and poor rest most keenly. Along with the decreasing dexterity and increasing headache, my hands began to tremble. I recognized the familiar sensation and realized I was desperately craving tobacco. My cigarette case, of course, was now in the possession of Dr. Watson.

I grunted as I stumbled over my feet for the fifth time in the last half hour. My appendix of a body was protesting its treatment, and very soon I would have to succumb to its demands. I made my way to a boulder beneath the shade of a tree and sat down heavily, wiping the perspiration from my forehead and rubbing at the soreness in my neck.

The dilemma was multiform. Firstly, I was unfamiliar with the terrain. The next course of action would be to find a village of some sort to acquire food, but where was there a village? Secondly, I did not have much in the way of currency. Thirdly, I was wary to reveal myself. Moran was an accredited hunter; if he had the ability to track an animal through the wilderness, then surely he would be able to follow the rumors of a man dressed in dirty and worn clothing requesting food and rest.

There was nothing for it, however. My head ached and my stomach was becoming deucedly sore as my trek demanded more and more energy. Even if I could go a day more without provisions, I would still need them eventually, and I should not overlook the chance to acquire food when I could. Who knew how spare my chances for such would become as I continued on my impromptu travels?

I assumed a village might situate itself near a valley: somewhere water would flow but not ultimately flood. With this in mind, I began my trek once more and angled myself to make a further, gradual decent down the mountain side.

Several times in this account already I have alluded to luck. I do not believe in luck. And yet, it could be nothing but a blessing of fortune or else the grace of God that led me to glimpse a spiral of smoke rising past the trees. I stumbled onward through the thick underbrush towards that beautiful sight.

The small town, which I would discover was called Faido, was nestled inside a valley with a river running through it. The trees I clambered past tapered suddenly off, and I found myself staring across the small expanse at buildings in the Italian style of architecture. Several spots of farmland hugged the mild hills and I spied the tower of a church down a little ways beyond.

I straightened my clothing, uselessly really, and tried to comb my hair back with my fingers. I regretted the sight of blood on my clothing which I had made no attempt to clean on the occasions I'd discovered water in the past day. It would make my appearance all the more notable. There was nothing I could do now, however, and so I made my way across the field before me.

It was three o'clock, now, and the sun was beginning its springtime decent across the sky. With the height of the mountains surrounding, I guessed that it would get dark in a few hours. I did not have any plans, for I really did not know what to do next. It would all depend on the next couple of hours; whether I would locate charity, or danger.

My path finally evened out into a trampled dirt road, and I made my way past spare clumps of houses. I wanted to find a place that had fewer opportunities for gossip. The town center was absolutely out of the question, so I angled myself away from it. Instead, I set my sights for a house near to an outcropping of trees. Adjacent was a middling sized barn and a well-tended couple acres of farm land, although it appeared as if they largely relied on their cattle that could be seen grazing at pasture. It was not a terribly big farm, and I guessed that it only went very modestly beyond the needs of subsistence.

As I neared, a caught sight of the farmer striding across his field in the direction of his house. I steeled myself with a deep breath; I did not know how much information I should reveal to him. Would it be best to create a cover story? Or was he the dependable sort that would respond better to the truth? Would he betray someone in suspicion, or would he be loyal and honorable to the plight of a hunted man?

I was several yards from the door when we finally met eyes. He frowned in my direction as he took in at a glance the sight of my clothing and disarray. "Signore! Che cosa è questo?" he cried in surprise.

Ah, Italian. I did not speak much of the language, but I knew enough to see myself through the basics of introduction. Carefully, I responded with a wave. "Signore, buon pomeriggio. Ho avuto delle difficoltà nelle montagne. Per favore, posso usar—"

My request was cut short by the man rushing forward and placing a bracing hand on my arm. Honest concern graced his features, and I felt myself somewhat taken aback by his earnest expression. "Mio Dio, signore - vieni dentro, per favore, vieni!"

I was pulled bemusedly through the door of his home and stood uncertainly in the front hallway as he busily shut the door behind us and went to search for his wife. I noticed several things at once. There was a crucifix attached to the wall and a bible lay on a table in a quiet sitting room – I could see it through an open door on my left. The bible was not placed simply for decoration, but appeared worn and much used. They were a Catholic family, and not absently so. They were Italian, so it was also quite likely they were Roman Catholic.

The furnishings of the rest of the house that I could see were modest but respectable; even tasteful. This referred to a standard of living that was simple only by the affectation of choice. The family might be able to afford more but either saved or spent their earnings in another fashion. I did not see the signs of children; however, the ring I had fleetingly spotted on the farmer's hand did not show the signs of much age, so perhaps they were only recently wed. It would have had to have been more than a year ago, however, given the state of growth in their farmland.

All of these factors spoke of a dependable sort of family, traditional and charitable by nature. If they were without children, they would not react as negatively to an admittance of danger. My musings were interrupted by the reappearance of the farmer with his wife – a plain but somewhat pretty young woman, probably only about twenty years old – who instantly gasped upon seeing me. Perhaps I looked worse than I had supposed?

"Signore, vieni nella cucina," the woman demanded quickly, inviting me down the hall to the kitchen. It did not seem as if they immediately required an explanation from me, and I found myself becoming suspicious of their quick trust.

I sat down slowly in an offered chair while the woman gathered up water and a platter of cold meat and bread. The farmer sat opposite of me and regarded my carefully. There was silence as I was handed a glass of water, which I sat down on the table without drinking.

As the wife continued preparing a meal, the farmer tried to draw me into conversation. "Che cosa fai qui," he asked slowly.

I fidgeted uncomfortably. While I understood what he said, I was unsure how to respond. He tried again. "È pericoloso viaggiare nelle montagne senza… L'aqua, il cibo; non hai le provviste, niente. Perchè?"

I believe I tried to stutter out a very broken response. I was astounded further by the man when he exclaimed suddenly, "Ah! You are English?"

The situation was rapidly coming to the point in which I'd have to explain myself one way or another. I sighed, and nodded. "Yes. I am indeed English."

The farmer clapped his hands. "Ha! I thought you might be. Your clothing and that accent of yours, they are telling." His demeanor shifted slightly, and he became apologetic as he said slowly, "I do not think though you are a… tourist. Are you?"

The atmosphere was a prompt for me to continue as much as his question. The wife paused in her preparations to glance at me, and I recognized that their charitableness could only go so much further without explanation. I remembered the crucifix and the modest decorations; the open expression in the farmer's face when he first saw me, and the age of this young couple. There were no signs of untrustworthiness in this plain household save for their easy goodwill. Life in London among thieves and blackmailers had made me accustomed to be distrustful of hasty kindnesses.

But, I was no longer in London. Unless Moran had made it to the town before me and set a trap, there was no reason for this family to take me in – a disreputable gentleman with dried blood on his coat who was unwilling to answer questions – with a desire for evil in their hearts. I read in the husband's still hands and tense back, and the way that the wife remained quietly behind him, that they had more reason to be suspicious of me than I of them.

I believed that I could take the chance. I sighed, and as if affirming my decision with an oath, I took a long draft of the water I'd been offered. "No… You are correct. I am not a tourist."

* * *

I studied in Florence for a while, but that was about three years ago, so I've forgotten a lot of Italian. If anyone sees any grievous errors, just let me know! I couldn't really decide between the formal and informal, but I figured that the family is so open and calm that they would prefer the informal in this case. I'm also working off of the theory that Holmes, if he had played an Italian priest in _The Final Problem_, would know at least a smattering of Italian. And the translations:

Signore! Che cosa è questo?  
_Sir! What is this?_

Signore, buon pomeriggio. Ho avuto delle difficoltà nelle montagne. Per favore, posso usar—  
_Sir, good afternoon. I had some difficulty in the mountains. Please, can I use-_

Mio Dio, signore - vieni dentro, per favore, vieni!  
_My God, sir - come inside, please, come!_

Signore, vieni nella cucina.  
_Sir, come into the kitchen_.

Che cosa fai qui?  
_What are you doing here?_

È pericoloso viaggiare nelle montagne senza… L'aqua, il cibo; non hai le provviste, niente. Perchè?  
_It's dangerous to travel in the mountains without... Water, food; you don't have provisions, anything. Why?_


	4. Negligent

Two updates? I'm taking the chance to write while I have both the inspiration for it and the pile of snow outside my door to keep me from going to work.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The couple listened attentively as I carefully relayed the specifics of my situation. I tried to keep my explanation trimmed without overmuch detail. In five minutes, they were informed that I was a detective from London who had fled the attentions of a criminal. I told them of my travel across the continent and that I had been assaulted by the criminal himself on a visit to the Reichenbach Falls.

In the account I described to the couple, Moriarty and Moran became one: simply a vengeful criminal that had sought me out and confronted me in Meiringen. They were told nothing of Watson, or that he'd been my companion during this exile. The fewer details, I reasoned, the better. Besides, I would not have had the heart to reveal the reason for his absence.

There were holes in my story, and the tight look in the farmer's face told me he suspected as much. However, whether my story was believable enough to secure my position, or his good nature simply won over his skepticism, he eventually nodded and extended his hand for me to shake.

"I am Marco. You have had a rough time of it, friend."

"Gregson," I lied, taking his grip tightly. "I appreciate your kindness."

He nodded, and his wife stepped forward to curtsey politely. Marco smiled up at his wife and grasped her hand briefly. "This is my wife, Elena."

"Nice to meet you, Signore Gregson, piacere," she smiled kindly.

Despite the pleasant introductions, the tension between us was by no means entirely dispelled. To be honest, however, I respected them all the more for their quiet wariness. I was not, after all, simply an old friend visiting for lunch. I was a mysterious visitor; torn, weary, and likely somewhat smelly from exertion and blood who had staggered upon their farmstead. It was a trifle embarrassing for me to infringe on their afternoon in so thorough a state of disrepair, but I felt all the more discourteous for bringing my danger to their doorstep.

Marco addressed this very thought a moment later. "I am right in assuming that the criminal you describe is still after you, Mr. Gregson?"

I nodded with a grimace. "Yes. And so I do not intend to infringe upon your hospitality much longer. I have been forced to enter the town for provisions before I renew my travels."

The question in his face was obvious, but it went unspoken. _Why do you not simply contact the local police? _Marco and Elena did not know, of course, the full particulars of the case: that I was presumed dead, and that I must remain as such if I were to dismantle the remainder of Moriarty's network and keep those few friends of mine in London safe.

Elena had begun to set the table for lunch, and I stared at the cutlery before me rather than meet Marco's gaze as I continued. "I am very grateful for your hospitality. You have indicated by your actions," I smiled weakly, gesturing to the plate that was set before me, "that I should stay for lunch, which is more kindness than I was expecting when I approached your farm." I straitened myself and assumed a professional air. "And while I am fairly confident that this man will not harm you – for, to do so, he would attract unwanted attention and jeopardize his chance to get to me – I do not like to take the chance." I began to stand decisively. "I must decline your offer for lunch; but if I might buy some food from you and a bag to store it in, then I can—"

Elena caught my arm with an air that made me suspect she'd ignored everything I had just said. "Signore Gregson, fermi." She pushed me back into my chair and rose to gather a bowl of water and cloth. Marco shook his head with a chuckle, folding his arms across his chest. "Please, Mr. Gregson, do not be ridiculous. You aren't going anywhere."

In London, a phrase like that would set an alarm off in my head and prepare me for the worst. In that humble Italian household, however, I discovered the statement was absolutely benign.

I stiffened uncertainly when Elena drew a chair beside me and peered at my face. I stuttered some sort of dismissal, but could do nothing when she suddenly grasped, albeit gently, the side of my head. She raised her cloth and I winced when she began to clean the abrasions on my cheek.

So preoccupied was I with this unexpected invasion of personal space that I did not immediately notice Marco's departure for his bedroom. He emerged a moment later with a shirt and coarse woolen jacket.

"You are very thin, Mr. Gregson, but I think these might see you better through to your destination than that ruined suit."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possib—"

Marco raised his hand in a firm command for me to stop. "I insist. Do not do me the dishonor of refusing."

When Elena had finished seeing to my face and hands, tutting over the cuts and wrapping the worst of my fingers with thin cloth, I rose to accept Marco's proffered gifts. I was shown into a washroom and given the privacy to change and freshen up. I made no mention of the scratches on my torso for fear the determined Elena would decide to clean those as well.

When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I better understood the reaction the Italian couple had made to my appearance. There were bruises under some of the cuts on my face and my pale face was made all the more unsettling by the darkness under my eyes. My hair, too, was a mess and I was relieved to spy a comb on the shelf beside me. After a truncated toilette, I emerged in the hallway feeling much fresher and grateful for the dry shirt, even if it was a size or two larger than that to which I was accustomed.

Marco came to fetch me and pushed me down at the table for lunch. There was no refusal I could make that would satisfy the charitable couple, and so I quietly filled my plate. I ate slowly even though, for the first time in the past few weeks, my appetite was absolutely ravenous.

My suspicions that the valley would darken early were correct. It was only five o'clock when the sky began to dim. Early though it was, I felt myself growing sleepy. The comfort of much needed food and rest had lulled my body into submission, and my posture evidently began to wilt without my knowing. Elena cleared the plates of our lingering lunch and Marco grasped my shoulders. "Come, Mr. Gregson. You can afford a quick rest."

Had I any belief that the stubborn man would listen, I would have informed him otherwise. As it was, I decided to accept the Italian's offer graciously.

As I look back on my decisions at Faido, I can't help but feel a bit of professional disappointment. I was not as careful as I should have been and I allowed the weakness of my body to dictate the course of my actions. The only defense I might allow myself was that I was, to put it colloquially, "out of sorts", which I do not find to be a good enough excuse for my negligence.

But! I did not begin this account with the intent to pick at my errors, and I must restrain myself. Besides, this may go to show my Boswell when he reads this that, especially in those first days after Reichenbach, I was slightly lost.

Marco led me to a spare bedroom. "Elena and I are yet young in our marriage, so we do not have children. This bedroom should be theirs when the time comes." He paused to stare around the plain room with a dreamy expression. Finally, he continued kindly. "You may make use of this bedroom for the evening."

I nodded to acknowledge that I'd caught his hidden meaning and replied, "I will, of course, be on my way once more in the morning. Thank you, again."

The kindly Italian smiled and clapped my arm genially. "Prego, Mr. Gregson. Elena and I shall be down the hall if you require anything."

He closed the door behind him and left me to stand awkwardly in place, observing the room in a state of bemused wariness. I was still surprised, to say the least, by this couple's kindness. At that moment, Watson's voice came unbidden to my mind. _See? Perhaps the country-side isn't as morally corrupt as you thought._

There was a window above the bed, and outside I could see the last vestiges of sunshine rippling away above the mountains. I hung my borrowed jacket on a chair that was tucked beside a desk and sighed, collapsing onto the bed without thought to my muddied shoes. It could not have been more than minutes before I was fast asleep.

Exhausted though I may have been, my ears caught the sound of knocking at the front door a couple of hours later. I listened blearily as a polite greeting was exchanged. It was when I caught the request for information on "an Englishman wearing a torn coat" that I was wrenched awake with the feeling that I'd been plunged through ice.

* * *

I'm hoping I'm not leaving Holmes to linger here too long; I'm also beginning to wonder how out of sorts he might have been without the usual presence of Watson to ground him? Hmmmmmm...

Quick Italian guide: "Fermi" means "Stop!";"Piacere" is a quick way to say "Pleased to meet you."; and finally, "Prego" is simply, "You're welcome!"


	5. Interview

**Chapter Four**

I was awake in an instant; carefully, I eased myself to my feet and put an ear to the door, grateful that the wooden floor of this newer house had not yet had a chance to acquire squeaks and groans.

It was no great deduction to conclude that, in a remote Italian town nestled among the mountains of Switzerland, there would be a dearth of men whose first language was English. The gentleman's accent coupled with the directness of his inquiry could be from no local matter.

I cannot deny that, for a brief and breathless second, as my mind rapidly cycled through the information at hand, I conjured a fanciful identity for the caller at the door. _Could it be a doubtful Watson, who was unprepared to accept my death, come to seek me out?_

The haphazard thought held little weight and was blown away in an instant before a cleansing gust of reason and logic. No, Watson believed me dead. His reaction at the falls was proof enough to this conviction. Furthermore, even if he _had_, by some unlikely chance (for surely, no evidence existed to the contrary), suspected that I still lived, the voice floating down the front passageway, across the kitchen, and into my ears across the hall was not that of my poor companion. It was deep and had a tendency to rumble upon certain vowel sounds, indicating to me that he was older; his diction, however, suffered none to the bass of his voice or his age, for it was clear and measured – educated, certain, and intelligent.

For the first time, I knew the voice of my pursuer and potential assassin.

Marco, to his benefit, received the visitor with a believable confusion. "Englishman? No, there are no Englishmen here besides yourself, _signore_."

There came a weary sigh. "No? How unfortunate." A pause. "Would it be too impolite an imposition to request a glass of water? I've been searching for my friend these last two evenings and I'm quite worn through."

There was, of course, nothing that Elena or Marco could say to the opposite that would not raise suspicion. There was only the slightest of hesitation before they replied in the affirmative and allowed their new guest into the kitchen.

I stepped carefully from the door and spun my attentions across my borrowed room. My mind was awhirl, desperately seeking a stimulus that would launch a plan. But of course, I could not act without determining the likely steps of my pursuer. With great effort, I closed my eyes and demanded the obedience of my frantic brain.

_Consider the mind of your assassin,_ I instructed myself calmly.

How much did he know? Either my pursuer had landed upon this village by chance and had stopped to question its inhabitants in the chance that I had sought shelter, or he had tracked my progress and concluded my presence to be here. Obviously, this man was a hunter, for either conclusion demanded insight into the patterns of prey.

While I thought and reasoned, I made sure to keep an ear on the conversation in the kitchen. There was the polite offer of tea, which was gratefully accepted, before the stranger began picking once more for information.

"I am running out of options, and of hope, for finding my friend again," he sighed deeply. "I saw him take quite a tumble down the rocks."

Marco's voice was naturally curious at this unelaborated conviction. "Rocks?"

"Oh, yes. We were hiking, you see, through the mountains and my friend lost his footing. And to think that it was I who suggested this outing?" After this self-deprecating statement, there was a pause, and the stranger continued apologetically, worried strain coloring his words. "I'm sorry, it is terrible manners to unload one's troubles upon a stranger."

Marco replied quickly and soothingly. "Do not worry, _signore_. It is clear that you are weary of both foot and heart. By all means, share your story. Perhaps it may comfort you."

Marco seemed to be playing for time, all the while maintaining his part as an uninformed farmer. Or, perhaps he was interested to see how this new story might intersect my own.

My pursuer, of course, used this as an opening to glean information. "If you are sure… My friend is a detective, you see." Well, he wasn't lying. "But I'm afraid…" A sigh. "How do I phrase it delicately? He is not always in the… best of health, shall we say? The work he does is hard, both on his mind and his body." There was a wry chuckle. "You'd never meet a man thinner, I daresay."

The hunter was inserting bits of description into his story, which was beginning to make me uneasy. My previous train of thought resumed, and I added a new fact for my consideration. He had requested an audience with the couple of this house, and it had been granted. He had accepted tea, which meant that he could use the time to question my whereabouts.

Was it a coincidence that he had stopped here, of all places, to request a rest and lingered to share his false story in hopes of discovering some news of my whereabouts?

I rarely favor coincidence.

He had tracked me here, at least to Faido, by some means or other. The 'how' mattered not. That he had sat down with the couple to talk rather than keep a look-out on the house or break in at night indicated a degree of uncertainty. Suddenly, I had hopes that he had simply concluded my presence to be in Faido, perhaps at an out-of-the-way farmstead, rather than particularly this household.

The conversation had continued unimpeded during my thoughts, and the stranger had continued after a thoughtful pause. "He was prone to the occasional weakening of his nerves. No wonder, really. Crimes in London can become quite gruesome." I heard the demonstrative shudder run through his voice. "This last breakdown was the worst, I'd say."

Marco interrupted gently. "Breakdown, _signore_? What do you mean?"

"Just what you think it means," the stranger replied grimly. "Like I said, his work was a strain on his _mind_ as well as his body." He pointedly said no more.

I caught what he was going for and, judging by the silence, Marco and Elena had grasped his meaning as well. Their silence sent a shiver of unease through my mind, and a new thought occurred to me: what if my pursuer, no more a stranger than myself, managed to undercut the story I'd told the Italian couple?

"I took my friend away as soon as he was well enough to travel. A long tour of the European countryside, we agreed, was just what he needed. Well, everything was going pleasantly, until we visited Meiringen."

The urge to swear, while overpowering, would have done little to better my situation. Our stories, which were naturally based upon truth, were over similar. Marco could have his pick of the surrounding details: mine, or my assassin's. Which, really, was the more peculiar? A detective running away from a criminal mastermind? Or an injured tourist wandering around the mountains?

"We had struck out early in our hike and it was perhaps noontime when we decided to turn back. We had nearly finished descending when—" There was a waver in the voice of the stranger, and he took a moment to compose himself. "I suppose the physical strain had taken a toll on him. He… lost his footing, and tumbled some fifty feet down the slope. When I caught sight of him over the edge where he'd fallen, I could see he was unconscious. Concussed, I suppose, for he had hit his head. There was blood. It was too dangerous to descend at that point, so I spent perhaps an hour picking my way around and back up to where he had lain. I lost sight of him along the way, of course. When I got to where he should have been, he was gone."

If Elena and Marco believed this story, I would no longer be a detective fleeing a vengeful criminal; rather, the gentleman sheltering in the bedroom of their future children was no more than a confused and mentally unstable man hiding from phantoms.

There were three routes of escape before me, and I was paralyzed from acting on any one of them without further information.

In the first scenario, Marco would believe my story and the stranger would have no knowledge more than a hunch that I was inside this house. If that were so, then I would be able to discretely make my escape when my pursuer had finished searching through Faido and moved on.

In the second scenario, Marco still believed me to be honest, but the assassin knew my location: he would leave the house, but keep a close watch on its exits, effectively barring escape. If this were the situation, I would be relying on Marco's ability to prevaricate so that I would have time enough to escape through the bedroom window and get a decent lead on my assassin.

And in the third scenario, my story was dropped in preference for the stranger's, and it would be no more than a span of minutes before my pursuer opened my door to lay claim to his poor concussed companion.

Marco had become silent at the finish of the stranger's tale. Cautiously, he had inquired, "Did you not check the mountains for your friend?"

"Of course I did. In fact, I pride myself that I am an accomplished tracker. Since my friend's fall yesterday afternoon, I have traveled up and down the area where he might have gone. I discovered a trail of trampled underbrush not far from here and inspected it to see if it was simply the path of some large animal. But no: I found boot prints in the mud. I followed the trail, which only went one way, into this town here."

Option one was eliminated. I turned from the door and began preparing for option three. There was a chance that I could escape now. If I removed the evidence of my stay here, then there was a chance…

In this account, I have already admitted that I regret the lack of professionalism I displayed while in Faido. In my exhaustion, I had neglected to remove my muddied boots before falling asleep and that negligence was stained (Mrs. Hudson might have agreed permanently) into the sheets where I had lain.

I had resolved to take the evidence with me when I noted the dry crumbles of dirt that had marked my path to the door a quarter of an hour before.

Unprofessional indeed, and I roundly admonished myself for my absence of mind. A hunter would have no problem discerning the presence of Sherlock Holmes from this room, for it was filled with muddy footprints and scuffs. I concluded that I would not have sufficient enough time to escape in scenario three. Keeping an ear on the conversation which would decide my fate, I picked up the chair at the desk and returned quietly to the door. If my assassin came through the door, I would be left little option but to fight him then and there.

Given the direction of Marco's questioning, which was just barely successful in sounding like small talk, I discovered that my fears were not unfounded. How often did I suffer from these mental distractions? Not often, but following physical stress, I occasionally lapsed into paranoia. Did I have many enemies in London as a detective? Some, but none willing to murder. How close was I to this stranger? An old friend, but we had admittedly grown apart and our relationship was less familiar than it should have been.

My heart sank deeper and deeper during this two minute interlude of conversation. Finally, Marco asked for the details of my injury. "How badly do you think your friend was hurt when he fell?"

I do not think my assassin had been able to see me after I had fallen to the path. He had been too high and his view too obstructed, for he had been some distance above me to tumble rocks along my path. As such, his response was suitably vague.

"Bruises and scratches and the like. Apparently, he was well enough to get up and walk away."

For the first time since the stranger had arrived, I heard Elena's voice. I was surprised to hear it, and further surprised to hear the directness with which she delivered her question. "You say that your friend took a wound to the head. He was, _come se dice_… concussed?"

A pause as the stranger considered. "… Yes. I saw him strike his head. Pretty roughly, I'm afraid to say. He would undoubtedly be confused if he ventured into the village," he elaborated, still working the angle that would negate any story the fleeing Sherlock Holmes might concoct.

Mentally, I gasped. Elena, the wonderful Elena, had seen the single flaw in the stranger's story. Elena, who had grasped my head to clean my face, saw the inconsistency in his description. If I had indeed struck my head, which the hunter had affirmed _very_ confidently, there would have been a gash, or at least a bump. While my cheek was bruised, the rest of my head had been protected in my fall.

It was the slightest detail, and in any other case, it would probably not have meant the defining factor of a story. But in an instant, I realized it had snapped Marco's trust from the brink – it coupled with, I dare presume, a firm glance from his wife – for his reply was consoling. "If he is indeed concussed, _signore_, then there is little doubt that he will be making his way to safety." I believe I heard the sound of a hand patting a shoulder. "From everything you have told me, friend, he is probably just making his way slowly. What you need is time, and patience. And," he apparently clapped his hands, rubbing them expectantly, "I daresay you could do with a good meal."

Ah. A distraction.

There was little my pursuer could do in the face of Italian hospitality without appearing rude. He certainly tried to defer; and oh, it is a delicious memory to recall how his detailed story had ruined him and how, despite every attempt to the contrary, he was forced to meekly accept what Marco promised to be "a hearty and delicious Italian meal that will comfort your weariness."

Bless that young woman, wherever she may be now, for her shrewdness.

* * *

**NOTE: **expositionexpositionexpositionexposition

And, of course, what I could not say from Holmes' perspective: I'm sure a down-to-earth farmer like Marco would say, "You can see the trustworthiness of a man in his eyes." I imagine some of his trust in Holmes' story came from the good-naturedness he could see somewhere in Holmes' face. Underneath all of the bruises and natural glaring, that is. ... And the sarcasm. ... And his propensity to be suspicious. ... He's complicated, okay?


End file.
